


This is the way I am

by Questioning_TrashCan



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Cronus just wants to be human, Gen, Nudity, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 20:26:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6674356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Questioning_TrashCan/pseuds/Questioning_TrashCan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most times you simply avoid thinking about it. But you want to look how you feel for once- and that isn't to say you want to look broken, confused and unhappy.</p><p>You just want to be human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is the way I am

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SpotidSalamango](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpotidSalamango/gifts).



It's lonely here. You're alone. You know this, because though Kankri is in the next room, you're ready to finally do it. There's foundation on the sink, and a hacksaw resting by the door. You don't know if 'my blood pusher is ready to leap from my chest and I want to throw up' classifies as 'ready', but you're going to assume it does.

Because you can't live like this anymore, and he knows that. He knows that, but there he is in the next room reading some centuries old piece of literature that you'd never even think about picking up. Asshole.

But you don't want him to be hurt, because you care about that particular asshole.

You twist the cap of the foundation bottle and dab some on your fingers. The colour is a sickly pinkish pale, nothing would ever turn a troll this colour other than this makeup in your hand. You got it from one of the humans you met before the game ended. Her name was... Roxy, you think. She listened to you when you told her you wanted to be human, she gave you a sympathetic look and then this bottle of whatever-this-is.

You splat the stuff on your cheek, and your blood pusher swells a bit at the sight. You smile, and the tears in your eyes are too tinted for your liking. You wished they were clear. Your eyes aren't meant to be purple, and the yellows are supposed to be white. You snarl at your reflection, and your teeth are too sharp.

You put the bottle down on the sink again and pull off your shirt, inspecting yourself.

You're glad you locked the door, because you're sure Kankri would be running in here soon otherwise. He tends to do that, just to remind you that he's here and that he can take away your freedom to be alone at any moment.

You're not doing anything bad.

You lift your arms, and the grub scars on either side of your chest draw a small growl from your throat. Your eyes drift lower, over your smooth stomach with no indents whatsoever. You're supposed to have a bellybutton, just like everyone else. But your skin is unnaturally smooth and grey and it disgusts you to no end.

You're supposed to have nipples, you think. You've never seen them, but you've heard of them. And something about the idea of them just feels so familiar that it's wrong you _don't_ have them.

You want to be like the others. You don't want these stupid flaps of flesh you call ear fins, and the slits on either side of your neck don't belong there. Your gaze drifts lower in the mirror, and you tug your pants down, along with your underwear.

Your bulge is still sheathed, it's not like you have a reason to be turned on. Your legs meet in an embarrassing slit that is in no way masculine - you want a bulge like Roxy told you about - one that doesn't retract after you're done and one that doesn't move like it's alive. She called it a dick, which is a less popular slang term for bulge in your culture also. You turn around to inspect your back, flexing your arms a bit.

You like your body, but there are so many parts of it you want to change. You adore your muscles, you worked hard for them. You love your physique - if not for all the fins, slits, discoloration and... The horns.

They stick straight up out of your head, then curl downwards and up again, ending in a perfect sharp peak. They're perfectly symmetrical, and you want them gone. They're totally strange and out of place... Not human. You're human, and these things growing out of you are not.

You dab the remaining foundation on your face and place your hands on either side of the sink. You give yourself a small smile in the mirror, because the new colour is almost enough to cover up the violet flush creeping up your neck as you get increasingly nervous.

The anticipation and anxiety is eating you from the inside out, you just want to be done with all this. 

You see a sudden flash in the mirror, something else that's honestly not supposed to be there. An image of you, in all your toned glory, with a horn ripped off and pressed to the mirror. There's violet blood everywhere, vibrant and dripping. You wish it were red. 

You drop your smile, stand up straight, and a single violet-tinted tear rolls down your still wet cheek as you walk to the door, grabbing the saw from its perch. You walk back to the sink, and notice its colour. White, just like the outside of your eyes are supposed to be. It's beautiful and clean, and you almost feel guilty when you raise the saw to your horn, pressing the jagged blade against it.

Your breath hitches in your throat when you feel the blade. Shit, you're really doing this. You don't know if you're ready, so you give a few testing strokes and you can feel the pain. It's not terrible, but it's still there. You weren't even pressing, just dragging the thing along the horrendously offensive addition to your scalp. You want it off. You want both of them off.

Maybe you should start with your fin. But no, you're either going in strong, or you're putting down the saw. And you don't want to admit defeat, not yet.

It's too long before you work up the courage to try getting your horn off again - and you know damn well this could kill you. Which is why it takes so long. You have to bend over the sink, with your face smooshed to the side of it before you start moving the saw, hard. You try to go fast, but the damn thing is so full of ridges that it's hard to get a decent hold. And also because your self harm thing is kicking in - your body won't physically allow you to do that much damage unless you're feeling nothing. 

You stand up straight and pull back the mirror so you can get to the medicine cabinet.

There aren't any painkillers in there. Kankri must've took them. Asshole.

Maybe this isn't a good idea.

After all, what is cutting off your horns going to do? Probably kill you. You could just overdose, go out the easy way. But Kankri's taken the damn pills, so that's not an option either. You can't even start on how difficult it was to sneak a hacksaw in here. This is probably your only chance.

It's too long before you work up the courage to put the saw down. You pick up a knife you stole from the kitchen (had to hide it in your pants on the way here, cut your leg in the process) and look it over. It's shiny and reflective, and you can see your disgusting eyes in them. You hate them so much, you want to rip them out of your skull.

You take a deep breath and hold your fin between two fingers, tightly. It hurts at the tendon you're gripping it, but you need it still. Slowly, you raise the knife to it and it twitches when the blade touches the skin. You hold it in place, position the knife, and cease all thoughts and you spur it forwards, intending to cut this time.

The pain is sudden and excruciating, and your grip on the flesh doesn't lessen until you feel the fin itself slip away from your ear. It falls to the ground, and you can't help it - you cry out. It hurts so bad and there's violet blood starting to stain that perfect porcelain sink. You can feel it dripping down your neck and to the floor, too. You slip, and the last thing you remember is seeing the knife flying across the floor away from where you collapse.


End file.
